It’s easy to see the value of young people spending a few years abroad, until you have to drop your child to the airport
TWO WEEKS ago, my daughter sold her precious black convertible. It was a car she had fallen in love with in what turned out to be the last year of the Celtic Tiger. A sexy machine, it announced to the world: “Here I am, successful and attractive.”
Although initially I did not approve of the extravagance, which she could not afford, I grew to love watching her drive up the road on a warm, sunny day, with the radio blaring and her blonde tresses sailing in the breeze.
But the sale of the car made me sad. It marked the shedding of her last anchor to home. Carla left her job that week too.
Then last Monday we drove her and her boyfriend to the airport for their flight to London, the first stop on their journey to Australia, where they are hoping to spend at least a year.
I still have her words ringing in my ears, “I’m not really emigrating mom; I’m just travelling for a bit.”
Along with these words, my ears also carry the echo of her younger sisters’ sobs, as they cried loudly the entire way back to Blackrock from the airport.
And above all this, I can hear my brother’s wry remark when I reported the drama and emotion to him. He said: “Isn’t it amazing the way the universe can smack you in the head and get you to change your perspective on something.”
He is so right.
For the past year or two, every time emigration hit the news, I got out my soap box and poured scorn on all those who made a huge drama out of young people leaving the country.
Now, I should state right here that it is young, single people I am referring to. Families with children or older adults who have ageing parents in Ireland are a different story altogether.
As far as I am concerned, Ireland has a long tradition of our young travelling abroad for a few years before coming home to settle down. It was something many of us did in the 1980s and many, though not all, came home.
So I just didn’t understand all the crying and emotional upheaval. My mantra was, and is: “Sure don’t we raise them to be independent.”
But I have learned this week that it is very hard to let them go, especially when their journey is going to take them to the other side of the world.
As a mother, I have spent the last month or so reacting on two levels. My rational self knows that this is the right thing for my daughter and her boyfriend to do. I know it will be very good for them both. I know that this is the right time in their lives to do this. And I know that if I were her, I would likely do the same thing. I know I will be able to talk to her and see her on Skype. I know all that, but in my heart, it’s a different matter.
This is my daughter, my little girl, though she is almost 24. As she leaves, she takes a piece of me with her. That hurts. She is also a much-loved big sister to my two younger girls. They don’t rationalise their feelings. They just miss her. They hated saying goodbye.
Before she left, she decided we should have some mother-daughter bonding time and so she arranged a couple of days in London for us. We had lots of fun, did some shopping and saw a show. But we didn’t have any in-depth conversations because, as I explained to her on the flight home, I couldn’t. I couldn’t tell her how I felt about her leaving because I didn’t want her to remember me very upset.
Two days before she left, we had a big party. This was the only way I knew how to tell her that this is her home, where she is loved unconditionally. I wanted her to feel the love of her extended family, friends and neighbours. I wanted to wrap her in that love so she could take it with her to keep her warm. I wanted to show her in a tangible way that that web of care will be waiting here for her when she returns.
On Monday morning, before we left for the airport, she had to say goodbye to the dog. He wagged his tail and licked her face. Another chip came off my heart.
Goodbyes at Dublin airport were an undignified mess of tears, garbled words and gasping for breath. When we got home, I retired to her room which she had left in a major state of devastation.
I spent hours tidying up, all the time telling myself that no one was dead. This was not a tragedy.
Later that evening, my husband decided we should go out for pizza to relax.
As we assembled in the hall, I looked at my other girls. Each was wearing an item of their big sister’s clothing. I was wearing her scarf and had sprayed myself in some of her scent. This was not a tragedy, no one was dead.
But it sure felt very like it.
